


Animal and God

by helvel



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur is unwillingly adopted by two gay werewolves, Gen, Mentions of werewolves eating people (and loving it), Mild Gore, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helvel/pseuds/helvel
Summary: Arthur knows not to trust anyone, especially not strange folk on the road at night. Too bad he ain't got a choice when he meets Mr. Matthews and Mr. Van der Linde.





	Animal and God

A wolf’s howl pierces through the night, waking Arthur with a start. Still, it takes several long seconds to realize something is wrong. Wolves aren’t much of a concern to him, travelling in a coach as he is. Except he ain’t travelling. The coach stopped at some point after Arthur dozed off, and now it stands in the middle of the road, unmoving.

Arthur peers out the front window. He can see the silhouettes of the horses, tails swishing in the cold night air, but there’s no sign of the driver. Dark forest looms on either side of the road, with nothing but blackness beyond the treeline. Arthur opens the door and calls out - Henderson, he thinks the driver’s name was. The man’s bald head was shiny as a polished apple and he wore a jacket with white patches, so the moonlight should be bouncing off one part of him or another if he just stopped for a piss, but Arthur doesn’t see anything, doesn’t hear any response as he calls for Henderson a few more times. Another howl pierces the night, long and low. When it trails off, Arthur’s skin is prickling all over and there’s another sound on the road - hoofbeats, drawing closer.

“There’s the coach,” says a voice from the distance.

Arthur ain’t a fool, he knows that folk are worse than wolves to meet on the road at night. He ducks behind the coach, out of sight from the two approaching travellers. It’s dark, and he’s quick, but not quick enough.

“It’s a kid,” he hears one of them say.

“I see that, Dutch,” the other one says. A long moment passes. “Come on out, son. We ain’t going to hurt you.”

“Go away!” Arthur shouts back.

“My name is Hosea Matthews, and this is my partner, Dutch van der Linde,” the man goes on, “What’s your name?”

Arthur grips his knife and presses himself back against the coach. The forest is close enough - he could make a break for it. But how much of a chance would he have? The wolfsong starts again, and Arthur grits his teeth. 

The two men watch him from their horses, not coming any closer but not leaving either. “Your parents out here with you?” the one called Dutch asks.

When Arthur gives no answer, the one called Hosea asks, “Are you hungry?”

“_ No, _” Arthur says, but he peers around the edge of the coach. Hosea is taking a wrapped package from his saddlebags. He pulls back the paper to show half a loaf of bread inside.

“It’s yours if you want it,” Hosea says, “Come here.”

Just the sight of the bread is enough to make Arthur’s empty stomach rumble. There hadn’t been time to get food before leaving town, and it had been some time before that as well. He takes a step forward, and hesitates. 

Hosea seems to realize Arthur isn’t about to come any closer. He tosses the bread over instead, and Arthur catches it. He’s got half the loaf in his mouth in seconds. He barely chews, barely tastes it in his haste to get it in his aching stomach, and it’s not until he’s dumping the crumbs from the paper into his mouth that he looks back to Hosea and Dutch. 

For just a second, there’s a strange glint of moonlight in their eyes, like liquid silver. The way they’re looking at him, though, Arthur might as well be a starving little kitten in the rain.

“Why don’t you come along with us, son?” Dutch says. “We were just about to stop and get a fire going. Got plenty more food to share.”

The bread only made the hunger pangs worse, but following two strangers off into the night is as good as asking to be robbed and murdered. Worse, some of the darker tales Arthur has heard come to mind. Creatures, not entirely human, whose bite could curse a man with a fate worse than death, turn him into a flesh-hungry thing more evil than any of the Hells that await him after death, if a beast like that were still human enough to die.

“I, uh…” Arthur stammers. What the Hell is he doing, scaring himself with stories like that when he’s got to keep his head on straight? “I got to wait here. For the driver to come back. You seen him on the road?”

Moonlight glints in their eyes again. “Can’t say we have,” Dutch says, slow.

A kindly smile softens Hosea’s face. “Why don’t you come sit with us for a while, and we’ll figure out how to get you the rest of the way to Monkshood.”

Hosea and Dutch hitch their horses at the trees on the far side of the road, where they see fit to start a fire. The pile of sticks and logs that they gather starts alight with a match, washing them both yellow in the warm firelight. They look just like two ordinary men taking a rest from their travels, but Arthur hasn’t forgotten that they’d been looking for the coach when they came down this road, knew it was headed to Monkshood - least that’s how it sounded to Arthur. Maybe old Henderson had a bounty on him and he fled into the forest when he realized these two were after him. Or, maybe these two knew the coach route and were looking to rob it. That doesn’t explain where Henderson went off to, though, and besides, both men got guns at their belts. If they were planning to rob Arthur, they’d have had an easy time of it already, no fancy tricks about luring him closer to the fire.

Arthur wraps his arms tighter around himself. He could at least warm up by the fire, long as he keeps an eye on both of them.

They’ve got a log already propped up for him to sit on, but Arthur keeps his distance, just close enough that he can feel the heat of the fire as he watches them carefully.

Dutch reaches for something - Arthur’s hand drops to his knife - but it’s only a can that Dutch takes from his bag. He opens it, and when the light shimmers off the orange salmon inside, Arthur’s feet carry him the rest of the way to the fireside. He takes the can when Dutch offers it, pulling out pieces of fish with his fingers to shovel them into his mouth as fast as he can chew. Brine runs down his hands and chin, but Arthur doesn’t care, because the salty meat might as well be the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

There’s a can of peaches waiting for him when he’s done with the salmon, and then another, and when Arthur finishes drinking the fruit and syrup from both, he realizes he’s sitting in the spot they made for him by the fire, and he ain’t cold no more, warmed by the fire and the coat Hosea draped around his shoulders. Arthur lays a hand over his swollen stomach and tries to stifle a belch, which makes both men laugh.

“Got some crackers left, if you’re still hungry,” Dutch says with amusement.

Dread sinks into Arthur’s over-full stomach when he realizes he’s eaten almost everything these two strangers have. Nothing comes for free, Arthur knows that better than most.

“I don’t got anything to pay you, for the food…”

Dutch shrugs. “That’s alright, son. You needed it more than we did, and we ain’t hungry anyway. _ Just ate. _” He turns to Hosea for agreement, and Hosea takes a drag of his cigarette as he considers it. 

“Wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee, though,” he says.

They pour water from their canteens into the coffee pot to heat. They’re a funny pair, Arthur thinks. Sitting close together, sharing long looks. And not just funny - but strange. Every now and then, when the moonlight hits just right, Arthur swears he sees that glint of silver in their eyes. Unnatural, it looks. Maybe he’s seeing things. Arthur can barely keep his eyes open as it is, too full and sated, but he still turns down the cup of coffee when they offer.

Hosea chuckles knowingly. “No, didn't think so. You’re too young to be liking coffee yet.”

“I’m not,” Arthur protests, “I like it fine.”

“How old are you, then?”

“Sixteen.”

Dutch beckons him closer, and against his better judgement, Arthur leans in.

“You’re a poor liar, son,” Dutchsays. 

Arthur scowls at being caught out. He tugs the borrowed jacket tighter around himself. Adults hate when you don’t tell the truth, but they lie all the time themselves. These two don’t seem angry about it, though. It’s almost like they care about what he has to say. Arthur chews his lip. 

“I’m fourteen,” he says.

They nod, satisfied. “Your parents in Monkshood?”

“Ain’t got parents no more.”

There’s that look again, like Arthur’s a pathetic little kitten. 

“You got work there, then?”

“Lookin’ for it.” Arthur glances up at them, hopeful. “Hey, you fellers know where I can get work?”

Dutch chuckles. “No. We don’t know much about that.”

Hosea rubs his chin. “That’s interesting, though,” he says, sharing a look with Dutch that Arthur doesn’t like at all. “No parents, no work. Where’d you get money to take a coach, then?”

“I, I…”

“Now, son, there’s no need to reach for that knife. We’re only asking.”

Arthur freezes. He hadn’t realized his hand was moving to his belt. “I, found it,” he grits out. 

_ You’re a poor liar _ echoes in his head. 

Arthur turns around, but the coach is still empty, only the horses waiting with no sign of Henderson. He supposes he could ride to Monkshood, if he cut the horses free, or drive the coach there himself. He isn’t sure how to do either of those things, but wolves still howl in the distance and he isn’t about to walk. 

“It’s alright,” Hosea says, “We’ll get you to Monkshood. Going there ourselves, in fact.”

“That’s right,” Dutch agrees. He’s nearly glowing with pride when Arthur turns back to face them. “We were on our way to the Monkshood orphanage.”

“The orphanage? Why?”

Their eyes glitter, and their hands find each other’s. “Why, the same reason any hopeful parents go there.”

What an odd family that would be, Arthur thinks, though maybe two funny fathers like this wouldn’t be so bad. Better than what Arthur had, anyway. What would it be like, with two parents who wanted you? It’s almost a nice picture to imagine, these two men with a little son or daughter between them, and Arthur almost smiles, until Hosea says, “We could drop you off there, if you like.”

“I ain’t going to no orphanage!” Arthur snarls, jumping to his feet. 

“There’s no shame in needing someone to take care of you-”

“I don’t need no one! I was making it to Monkshood just fine, until-”

Arthur whirls around to look at the coach. Henderson is still missing. _ Dammit. _ All Arthur wants is to be on his way and get away from here. 

He turns back to the fire. Dutch and Hosea watch him, and this time he knows for certain that he isn’t imagining that unnatural silver glint in their eyes. 

“Something the matter?” Dutch asks. 

Arthur’s heart is in his throat. What the Hell is he seeing? He blinks hard and takes a step back.

That’s the exact moment Arthur realizes he’s the unluckiest bastard on Earth, because his hand bumps his pocket and the clip of cash falls out, landing on the ground between them.

“That’s quite a lot of money, son,” Hosea says. 

“It’s mine!” Arthur snarls at them, scrambling for the cash.

“Easy now-”

“I killed a man for it. Stabbed him, right in the neck.” Arthur holds his knife between himself and the two men, warning them back. “I’ll do it again, if you don’t stay away from me!”

Their eyes are sparkling again, and glinting like liquid moonlight. “That’s more like it,” Dutch says, “I knew you weren’t a sweet little orphan boy!” He lets out a booming laugh with his head thrown back, and Arthur notices for the first time just how sharp his teeth are. 

“W-what the Hell-” Arthur stammers out, hand trembling around the knife. He tries to stuff the cash back into his pocket, but in the half second he glances down, he sees the jacket Hosea draped around his shoulders has white patches - just like Henderson had been wearing. 

Not just like it, but the same one. Ripped and torn to shreds, like an animal had been at it. 

“_ Jesus! _ ” Arthur curses, flinging the jacket from his shoulders as he jumps back from the two men. He can see it clearly now, their inhuman features - eyes glinting in the moonlight, teeth long and sharp in growing snouts. “ _ Stay back, you devils!” _

He brandishes his knife between the two beasts. They find this adorable, apparently, and make a sound like the little kitten just got tangled up in a ball of yarn.

“Oh, Hosea,” Dutch says, with a clawed hand over his heart, “I know he’s older than we wanted, but I think he’s just what we’re looking for.”

Hosea grins with too many teeth. “I’m inclined to agree with you.”

He lunges. A sound comes from Arthur’s chest, a shout or a scream, as he fights to get his knife to the grey wolf’s throat. He just manages, when searing pain erupts in his other arm where the black wolf’s teeth pierce it, blood pouring out around its enormous maw.

The long, low note of a howl echoes in Arthur’s ears until the whole world goes black. 

* * *

When Arthur wakes, the coach is moving again. The sun must be up - he can see the glow of it behind his eyelids - but still, he keeps his eyes tightly shut.

It was all a dream... some terrible nightmare...

He shifts his arm just to be sure. The black wolf in his dream had nearly severed it from the socket, but it moves without trouble now. _ Thank God. _Just a dream. Arthur reaches up to touch where the injury had been, and finds that his shirt is shredded to threads in the exact place the wolf had bit him. 

When Arthur opens his eyes, Dutch is paging through a book at the other end of the bench.

“Finally awake, I see,” he says, smiling. He knocks on the front window of the coach, and Hosea glances back from the driver’s seat. 

“Good morning!” he calls, loud enough to be heard through the glass. “Well, nearly afternoon by now.”

Arthur is going to be sick.

“We’re past Monkshood already,” Dutch explains, attention half turned back to his book as he flips the page. “No need to stop, we figured, since we all got what we were looking for.”

“Let me go,” Arthur rasps, throat like sandpaper, “S-stop the coach.”

Dutch just looks amused at the sentiment, and his eyes light up at what he finds on the page of his book. “Can you read? No, of course you can’t. I’ll teach you - but, just listen to this passage-” He clears his throat and reads from the page.

_ “Our humanity can only be understood if we embrace both the animal and the god within us. As humans, we must nourish both, yet America is a land of action. A place fixated not on ideas, not on the redemptive power of thought but on the obliteration of the intellect. It is a place wherein mankind has attempted to deny half of his being, an in pursuing freedom has attempted to split himself.” _

He finishes the passage and turns to Arthur, expectant. “Well, my boy? What do you make of that?”

“Leave him alone, Dutch,” Hosea calls through the glass, “the Change is going to be hard enough without you spouting Evelyn Miller at him.”

The ache in Arthur’s stomach is growing to near unbearable, the gnawing hunger a hundred times worse than it was yesterday. He has to go, has to get away somehow. His hand goes to the door handle. There’s open field outside, nowhere to hide, but maybe he can run…

A leaping rabbit catches his eye as it hops into the wheat field. The next thing Arthur knows, he’s got it in his claws, tearing it with sharp teeth so fur and innards and hot blood slide down his throat, blocking the sob that tries to wretch out of him because it’s _ so Goddamned delicious. _

Dimly, he’s aware of Dutch and Hosea coming up behind him in the field.

“It’ll get easier to control it, in time,” Hosea soothes. 

This is what happened to old Henderson, Arthur knows it now, as he slurps the last of the flesh from the rabbit’s ribs. He should have guessed… these two creatures who told him they’d _ just ate, _ in the middle of the night on an empty road. Henderson must have made a fine meal, and what’s worse is that thinking about the two massive wolves hunting him like an animal makes Arthur’s stomach churn with hunger. 

“W-what have you done to me?” Arthur sobs, tears dripping down through the blood on his face.

Dutch claps a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve given you what you wanted, son,” he says, beaming, “A place to belong.”

“I didn’t… didn’t ask…”

“Didn’t have to. “

To think - just yesterday, Arthur had thought how nice it would be to have parents that wanted him. Now, he’s not so sure. 

“Now that we’re family, how about you tell us your name?”

Horror chokes Arthur, revulsion at what he’s done, what he’s become, will become. He can’t speak, can’t do anything. At least he’s stopped sobbing. 

“Come on. You got to have a name. Willie? Waylon?” When Arthur doesn’t answer, Dutch turns to Hosea. “What do you think?”

Hosea considers it for a moment. “I’ve always liked Tacitus for a boy.”

Laughing, Dutch squeezes Arthur’s shoulder. “Come then, young Tacitus,” he says. He’s got the clip of cash in his hand, and he splits it to tuck half the bills into Arthur’s shirt pocket. “This was a good score, but we got a thing or two to teach you still.”

The two of them return to the coach, easily as if nothing was wrong. Everything is wrong. Arthur watches them, as Hosea gets back into the driver’s seat, and Dutch climbs into the coach, with the door open and waiting for Arthur to join. 


End file.
